


I'm Sorry

by orphan_account



Series: PruHun Week 2015 [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:06:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Translation notes:<br/>[1] Ne állj: Something along the lines of "Don't stop" or "Keep going".</p><p>[This chapter was written by UndeadAlbinoTrash.]</p><p>UndeadAlbinoTrash: I had a couple of messages asking me to try writing something with a little more… /spice/. I used to write a lot more of these, but y'know…</p><p>FlamingHelmet: Trash isn't that pure. Don't let him fool ya.</p></blockquote>





	I'm Sorry

_"Experience, the name men give to their mistakes." — Oscar Wilde_

* * *

One day, I read a book about the conflict "Human x Machine", of how the efficiency of the machines could replace the organic labourers in factories and assembly lines and that entire theoretical blunder. Age does that to you.

For some reason, I began to try to understand where nations would fit in this classification. I was just a puppet for my kings and many times, I simply obeyed to their orders without objections. However, before you call me a murderer, a monster, remember that the life of a human was not something I could understand at all times. I could not understand the possible significance of such a short period of time that was human life next to mine. They were like pawns in a chess game.

Still, I was not very insensitive to the deaths around me; through my hands or not, directly or indirectly. It was a somewhat black-and-white problem. My conscience was walking on a tightrope between empathy and the coldness. Guilt was an old acquaintance of mine in my nightmares, in lucid dreams in which a stack of bodies white as ghosts – whose faces always appeared horribly disfigured – piled on me, laughing at me, mocking me and my mistakes.

Stupid and small mistakes, like that time Erzsébet took me to dance at a ball in Hungary during the _Belle Époque_. It was dirty from her, because I had never trained enough to be a good Csárdás dancer. It seemed that my clumsy way was so funny that it actually was worth those stomps on her feet and illegally improvised steps. Moreover, I showered her with apologizes as we danced, but she just kept laughing and dancing.

"I'm sorry."

" _Ne állj!_ " [1]

In war, I wanted to be a machine and not need to be afraid of making mistakes. In times of peace, I wanted to be human and see grace in life. It was funny, because I never got the right measure of things correctly. Therefore, I settled with being a machine. "Machines do not make mistakes, do not feel." Perhaps, my job was to obey. I was good at it.

However, the fear of nightmares only became the fear of not being able of feeling anything. Anything but the worst of human feelings. Anger, envy, jealousy, greed...

A few people still tried to keep a minimally decent contact with me. Erzsébet was one of them. But war changes people, makes our monsters emerge and arrest us within our own bodies to witness our sins. Moreover, what would happen when the last war was over? Would we be humans or machines? Perfect or imperfect? Or would we be just monsters?

I carried these doubts with me for a long time before I let them slip to her in one of those visits she paid to my house from time to time. Until I felt the alcohol make me express my confusion before my own theory. And until she kissed me hard and gave me a new label.

"Neither machine nor human. You are Gilbert. I am Erzsébet. "

She laid me on the bed and took off her clothes. She then lay down on me, explored my neck, kissed my eyes, bit my ear. Slowly, she was undressing me, discovering me. She drew a path of small bites from my neck to as far as the waist of my pants allowed. My hands searched for support in her body, which arched up to my touches.

Neither a mistake nor the right thing. Regardless of the results, only the experience mattered. Just like the Csárdás. Just like having sex.

I moved inside her, and she sighed in a different way.

"I’m sorry.”

" _Ne állj_..." she whispered and pulled me to herself to close the distances between our bodies, asking me to kiss her again.

And again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Translation notes:  
> [1] Ne állj: Something along the lines of "Don't stop" or "Keep going".
> 
> [This chapter was written by UndeadAlbinoTrash.]
> 
> UndeadAlbinoTrash: I had a couple of messages asking me to try writing something with a little more… /spice/. I used to write a lot more of these, but y'know…
> 
> FlamingHelmet: Trash isn't that pure. Don't let him fool ya.


End file.
